Lavande
by LemonMeringueTart
Summary: Maura / Jane smut...nothing more. :
1. Chapter 1

If I had a dollar for every time Jane spoke to me from behind lowered lashes; her voice thick with desire as her hands clench against the bedclothes, I'd have exactly one hundred and thirty seven dollars.

One hundred and thirty eight, if you count right now.

"Maur." She grinds out my name slowly, as if she's taking a long and languid drink for a cold fountain on a hot summer day. I know exactly what she wants from me, and a small piece of my heart breaks, understanding the ache that she surely must feel.

I move my tongue once, and she shudders against me. It is divine.

When I was young, I had the advantage to summer in Europe with my parents. We rented a house in the south of France for a week and while they were entertaining friends one afternoon they put me on a bus filled with elderly Japanese tourists. I had a six hour ride tour of the countryside and by the time I returned home, I was fluent in Japanese.

I couldn't believe the beauty of the southern French farmland. There were fields of lavender bordered by sunflowers, and the contrast of the yellow-highlighted purple fields against the bright blue sky was like nothing I'd ever seen.

I've always considered that to be the most beautiful sight in the world. That is, until I witnessed the expression on Jane's face when my tongue is sliding against her very core. Lavender and sunflowers have nothing on her.

Her fingers wind through my hair tightly, pulling me against her. It is now, in these small moments of vulnerability when she can't control her need for me that I love her most. Is she aware that she chews on the corner of her mouth and furrows her brow when she needs me to move slightly to the left? I oblige, and her long hands tighten their grip on my head, holding me in place, as a guttural moan escapes her throat.

I couldn't move if I wanted to. She is far stronger than I am, the mornings at the gym leaving her with an impressive set of biceps. Although she is slender, she has a high percentage of lean muscle mass, and I've seen her handle much larger suspects with ease.

If she were anyone else, I'd forcibly smack at their hands and tell them to go fuck themselves. I have never been one to enjoy being told what to do, in any circumstance.

Everything is different with Jane. I take her powerful hold on me as a compliment. I eagerly take commands from her in many different situations, the bedroom being one of them.

However, I never let her forget who is really in charge. With a flick of my tongue, or in this case, a cease movement of said tongue, I could have her in the palm of my hand. She would be quivering and anxious to do as I please in order to get her reward. This exciting knowledge causes me to increase my motions even more and soon she is grunting my name in a feral chant.

She is finer than any vintage in France. Heady and slightly sweet, I enjoy how her flavor lingers on my tongue as I bring her to climax.

When her fingers release my hair, I slowly kiss my way up her long body until I am resting in the curve of her neck. She pulls me toward her, her other hand grasping for the blankets. I help her, and pull the lavender-scented throw around both of us.

Flashing a sunny smile at me, I am once again transported to the French countryside. Someday I will take her there, and we will sit in a field overlooking the walled city of Carcassonne and eat Sushi.

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	2. Chapter 2

I'm very sorry that I never replied to all your lovely reviews of Chapter 1. The site won't let me and I'm not sure why. I appreciate them, and they are the reason for this little chapter…..

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><p>I've never been anywhere, really. One summer, when I was eight, Ma loaded us kids up in the back of the Ford Taurus wagon and drove us to Gettysburg to see the battlegrounds. I don't remember much, except that it was really humid and Frankie complained the entire time.<p>

Sometimes I feel I must be really boring to Maura. I mean, she's been all around the world and met so many high-class people. She talks about France and London and different kinds of cheese and gourmet five-star restaurants, and I'm pretty much content to hang around Boston for the rest of my life and always get pizza from Regina's.

Not that I don't want to travel, because I do. But what else can I say? I'm a Boston girl through and through. I was born here, have always lived here, and that's the way I like it.

"Jane." Her voice calls me back to the present. Shaking my head slightly in order to clear my thoughts, I find her sitting on the couch, legs tucked primly underneath her, and a bemused smile on her face. "Were you listening to anything I said?"

"Yes." I respond easily. "You were saying how you once saw people who lived in caves in France."

She sighs, and I am fully aware that she knows I was daydreaming.

"They don't live in caves like Batman, Jane." She says, the humor evident in her voice. "They live in domesticated cave dwellings, known as troglodyte homes and the caves themselves are one hundred million years old. Isn't that fascinating?"

"Very." I respond, licking my dry lips as I watch her swirl her wine around in her almost empty glass. We have been sitting and chatting comfortably since dinner, and Maura is nearly finished with her second glass of wine. Pouring her another full glass, she thanks me as I take a long swig from my beer.

I can count on her mood to fluctuate with each sip, and I'm hoping she decides to sip this glass quickly. She is now caught between her 'reminiscing about things in Europe she finds interesting and would like to show me someday' mood and her 'we need to bring more culture to your life, Jane, so we should start museum touring this weekend' mood. Why she doesn't accept my collection of Ansel Adams posters and ACDC anthology as culture is beyond me. However, if I bide my time carefully, I can hurry her through this thought process and shuttle her quickly to the mood that follows.

Once she's happily toward the end of her third glass of after-dinner wine, she falls into the 'no work of art in the Louvre is as beautiful as Jane' mood. She begins to compare my various body parts to those found in museums all over the world, and I can see her start to get aroused as she waxes poetics about everything that I am.

By the time she drains the very last drop of that glass, she is in my arms and all other thoughts are forgotten.

And so what if I've never been anywhere of great culture, and I don't know a Monet from a Manet. I obviously have high standards, and having Maura as my wife is the proof.


End file.
